


I Turn Around, and There You Are

by chalantness



Series: part of the journey is the end [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fix-It, Interdimensional Travel, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s) - Next Generation, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 17:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18627718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalantness/pseuds/chalantness
Summary: “If I could go back in time, do it all over again—meet you all over again, fall in love with you all over again—I’d do it in a heartbeat.”





	I Turn Around, and There You Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mustang_Girl16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mustang_Girl16/gifts).



> THIS FANFIC CONTAINS MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS.
> 
> And then goes to fix those spoilers because canon is a cruel place and I thrive on my bubble of fanon bliss. This concept was heavily inspired by an idea by **gomustanggirl16/Mustang_Girl16** from a while back about Natasha waking up in an alternate dimension, in the life of "another Natasha", and it's a concept that I've wanted to write for so long. I heavily adapted the original prompt to fit what I feel could be canon, but I hope the theme of the prompt is still appreciated!
> 
> Also, this is me shamelessly hopping on the "a soul for a soul" fix-it trend. Because duh.
> 
> ALSO, this fic features my take on the nextgen, along with James Rogers, of course, and you can take a look at all of my babies' babies [over here](https://chalantness.tumblr.com/nextgen) if you're curious. You'll probably see them pop up more often.

Natasha blinks back at her reflection in the water, strands of hair slowly falling from her braid, curling around her face as she lifts her chin up and stares at the sky. She’s not quite sure why she expects it to be dusk out. Why she feels as though the sky should be dark and endless, and the miles of grass and evergreen trees surrounding the Avengers Facility should be an expanse of rocks and slopes and shadows. She feels displaced, almost, as if she should be in on an entirely different planet, in an entirely different place in time. Maybe it was in a dream she had recently. It’s been a long while since the guilt and doubt and darkness managed to float back up to the surface, but it’s still a possibility.

“A little early to be out searching for shooting stars, don’t you think, Mom?”

His voice is low and smooth and _familiar_ , lilting in amusement, and she doesn’t quite know why she holds her breath as she turns around.

 _Steve_. Those eyes—the brightest, clearest shade of blue, framed by those ridiculously long eyelashes of his—are exactly like the man she remembers, exactly like those eyes she’s stared into for far too long. But it isn’t him. He has the same sculpted jaw, the same dimple in his cheek, but his face is younger, no older than a teenager.

And the strands of hair flopping over his forehead, perfectly disheveled, are a scarlet red. _Her_ red.

 _Mom_. His voice tugs at something in her hazy thoughts, and suddenly, she feels ridiculous for not recognizing her own son for a second, no matter how fleeting. She must not have had as much sleep as she thought.

“You say that like it’s uncommon to be staring up into space around here,” she quips in return, fingers instinctively reaching out to tuck his collar back into place. She doesn’t know when James started taking to button-downs just like his father, but at least he has the sense to throw it over a graphic tee and leave it unbuttoned, or else she’d accuse her husband of influencing their son into dressing like a senior citizen. “Maybe I’m expecting your Auntie Carol to be flying in any second,” she points out, one eyebrow raised.

James arches an eyebrow in return, and, _god_ , it takes all she has not to grin like an idiot. He may have his father’s face to a tee, but those expressions are all her.

“ _Is_ Auntie Carol coming?” he challenges, lips twitching at the corners, and then he’s laughing and ducking his head away as she ruffles his hair.

“Did you come out here just to sass me?”

He runs his fingers through his long hair as he shakes his head. “I’m done getting my ass kicked by Dad for the day, so Nikki’s swinging by so we can grab milkshakes.”

“Nikki?” The name slips from her lips before she can quite catch it.

James gives her a look. “ _Stark_ ,” he says slowly, eyebrows furrowing together. “Do we know another Nikki?”

“I—no.” Natasha shakes her head, an odd sensation tugging at her chest as she laughs. “Sorry. Guess your Mom is running on empty right now.”

“Want us to bring you back something from the diner?” a voice asks, young and bright and chiming like bells, and she and James turn to watch as Nikki walks over to them. She has a designer handbag hooked on her arm, her black pumps clicking against the concrete as she pulls off her favorite pair of rose gold Ray Bans from over her eyes. She beams at them, her face almost exactly like her father (only so much prettier and sweeter, and Natasha’s sure to give Tony shit about it whenever they’re together) as she tucks her aviators into the collar of her blouse, coming to stand beside them. “I’m told carbs and grease are the perfect cure to sleep deprivation. Or so my father tries to convince me.”

“Tony Stark will find every reason to justify having burgers once a day,” Natasha mumbles, earning a chuckle from James and a giggle from Nikki as she leans in to smack a kiss on Natasha’s cheek. “I’ll find something to eat here. You two have fun.”

“Bye, Mom,” James says, pecking Natasha’s other cheek before Nikki starts tugging him away, and Natasha feels her chest tighten ever so slightly as she watches them go. She can’t quite help but think that something seems— _off_. Like some small part of her mind can’t quite keep up.

She may not have Steve’s endless optimism, but still. It’s been _years_ since she’s felt like this. Like she’s simply waiting for the world to pulled out from under her.

But before she can dwell on this thought, however, voices from around the corner pull her attention to her right, and an odd sensation hits her stomach as she watches Clint walking out from around the building, his head tipped back in a laugh as the two girls on either side of him are talking over each other excitedly, their words too quick and too high-pitched for Natasha to quite make out, even if she could focus on them. But her attention is on Clint, and her stomach flips, an odd tingle sliding down her spine as they walk closer to her. Seeing Clint makes her feel as if she’s _falling_ , and for a moment, she _is_ —staring up at the side of a cliff, the air rushing around her, eyes blurred with tears—

“Mom!”

Natasha sucks in a breath, blinking quickly as her daughter practically bounds over to her, bow in one hand and a quiver strapped to her back. Her long, red curls are flying with her every step, and her eyes—the same bright, bright blue as James, as _Steve_ —stare up at Natasha as she huffs out a breath.

“Can you tell Uncle Clint that he’s being ridiculous?” Tatiana asks—practically demands, her face pulling into a frown that makes Natasha feel as though she’s staring back at a younger, sweeter reflection of herself.

“Hey, it’s only fair I get the last cupcake considering you _ate_ my last cookie the last time you visited!” Clint laughs, pointing one end of his bow at Tatiana as she rolls her eyes, her lips twitching to fight off a smile. Then he turns to Natasha, eyes twinkling in amusement. “An eye for an eye, right, Nat?”

She wants to laugh, quip in return about picking on someone his own age, but she can’t. Her voice is caught in her throat, her chest tightening in something a little like dread.

_A soul for a soul._

_A soul for—_

“Nat?” Clint asks, his smile faltering. At her side, her daughter’s amusement shifts into something akin to confusion, and a little bit of concern, too, and that seems to snap Natasha out of her trance as she shakes her head a little, curving an arm around Tatiana’s shoulders.

“Sorry, I—” She licks her lips. “I’m a little spaced out right now.”

Clint’s easy smile slides back onto his face, turning quickly into a smirk. “Steve keeping you up at night, huh?”

“ _Uncle Clint_ ,” Stephanie gasps next to him, her fair cheeks quickly flushing a bright pink that makes her skin glow, that make her eyes seem that much bigger, somehow. Clint laughs again, throws an arm around his goddaughter and pulls her in close, and the way that Stephanie wrinkles her nose and turns her head away from Clint’s sweaty shirt is an expression that makes her look entirely like her mother. She looks every bit like Wanda the same way James looks every bit like Steve—with her dark, dark hair and her high cheekbones and her full bottom lip. But her eyes? Those stormy blue eyes, deep and endless and reflecting with her every thought, her every emotion. Those eyes are all Bucky.

Tatiana makes a face and steps away from her mother, as if _Natasha_ had been the one to imply that her father was too busy making love to her mother to let her sleep.

Natasha glares at Clint. “What’s the matter with you?”

But Clint just beams, shrugs his shoulders and uses the fletching end of the arrow in his hand to tap Tatiana’s shoulder. “Okay, okay. Time for lunch, girls.”

“You coming, Mom?” Tatiana asks, her smile bright and hopeful, and, not for the first time, Natasha wonders how her little girl has grown so fast. Wonders how lucky she must have gotten to be the reason that her daughter can smile so easily, almost carelessly, not knowing an ounce of the hardships Natasha had suffered at her age. Her life is nothing like the one Natasha had and everything Natasha had wished for when she was still young and hopeful. When she believed there was more for her than what was crafted for her.

Natasha feels her throat tighten ever so slightly, feels her eyes beginning to sting, just a little, and she hopes that Tatiana can’t tell that her mother is seconds from tearing.

Suddenly, she feels that familiar tug in her chest, making her think—making her _realize_ —that this isn’t exactly what she remembers. Suddenly, she feels a little bit heartbroken that she can’t remember what it was like to watch James and Tatiana growing up. What it was like to stumble through being a mother, knowing it would be worth it.

“No,” Natasha says, her voice a little soft, but just as a question flickers in her baby girl’s bright blue eyes, Natasha gives her a smile. “But eat the last cupcake for me, okay?”

“Nat!” Clint exclaims, earning a giggle from Stephanie and a snicker from Tatiana as she gives Natasha a quick hug, then releases her, bounding back over to Clint’s side and bumping her shoulder into his arm. “Oh, it’s _on_ , Little Widow,” he says, then breaks out into a run, and Tatiana and Stephanie squeal in protest as they hurry after him.

 _This isn’t real_.

Natasha licks her lips, exhaling a shaky breath as she watches them race into the building.

 _This isn’t real_. That’s why everything had felt off. Why she’d felt so displaced. Why, for the first time ever, everything felt perfect. _A soul for a soul._

She died on that planet, for that stone, and this is—

This is—

“ _Love_ ,” a voice murmurs, breath warm against her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine as large, warm, calloused hands slide up her arms, spinning her around and drawing her into his broad chest. Steve smiles down at her with those twinkling blue eyes, with that crooked grin of his, as he dips his head down to press his forehead against hers. _This isn’t real. This isn’t real_. Yet, she can still feel everything. The warmth fluttering in her chest, the tingles sliding across her skin, the firm press of his lips over hers.

She feels every touch down to her soul, too perfect, too tangible to just be a figment of her imagination.

And it pulls her in, tempts her senses, because then she’s twisting her fingers into his shirt and slanting her mouth harder against his, drawing a noise of surprise from the back of his throat as she kisses him harder, deeper.

For just a moment, she lets herself get drawn into the illusion. For just a moment, she lets herself indulge in the one thing she never, ever risked hoping for.

Until Steve is chuckling against her lips, easing himself away, just a little, as she opens her eyes to find him peering down at her in amusement. “That’s one hell of a hello,” he murmurs, holding her a little tighter, squeezing her a little closer, and maybe she’s imagining how perfectly she fits in his arms. Maybe she’s imagining how his hold feels strong and safe and sturdy, yet his body feels at complete ease against hers. He cradles her like she’s precious, like her one true place has always been right here, right in his arms.

She closes her eyes, twisting her fingers tighter into his shirt. She wonders if this would have been what it felt like with _her_ Steve. It’s stupid that she still wants to know.

“What were you doing out here by yourself?” The question is mumbled against her temple as he draws her to her chest, and she rests her head on his shoulders, letting her body sway with his.

“Nothing,” she admits, burying her face into his shoulder. “Our children came running through not too long ago, by the way.”

His chest rumbles with a chuckle as he cups the back of her head, letting her lean back against his touch as she stares up at him, a soft, small smile on her lips. His fingers tangle into her hair, gently massaging at her scalp, and she lets out a hum of appreciation as her eyelids nearly flutter closed. “That explains that look on your face,” he teases with a curve of his lips at the corner, his eyes sparkling, until a beat passes and his expression softens. “You seem to be getting these bursts of nostalgia more often lately.”

“It seems so,” she breathes out.

“They grew up so fast, didn’t they?” he asks, giving her a dimpled, crooked sort of smile as she nods. “Sometimes I wish I could do it all over again.”

Despite the tightness in her chest, she manages a laugh. “Have another baby?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not—not just that.” He slides his hand down her back, curves it over her hip, squeezing gently, and he brushes a soft, quick kiss to her lips. Like he can’t quite help himself. “If I could go back in time, do it all over again—meet you all over again, fall in love with you all over again—I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

She feels her heart flutter, warmth tugging at her, making her press as close to Steve as physically possible. “You think it would happen again?”

His smile doesn’t falter, not even a little. “I do,” he answers easily.

“You think we would still find each other?” she asks, stretching up on her toes, pressing her forehead against his. “You think it would still be us in another reality?”

She knows that her words could sound doubtful—could sound worried or wary—but Steve, it seems, knows her in any reality, in every figment of her imagination. Because he gives her an easy, soft laugh, kissing her gently, tenderly. Slowly. Like they have all the time in the world. Then he draws back just enough to meet her gaze, tucks her into his chest as he repeats, “I do.” He lifts his hand from her hip, brushes his thumb across her cheek as he cups her face, and the way he looks at her is something that could only be described as pure awe. “I know it would happen all over again, no matter the variables, because I don’t believe in an existence where I don’t fall in love with every part of you.”

She blinks, her eyelashes dotting with the tears she hadn’t noticed gathering in her eyes. Her heart flutters in her chest, wild and racing. _Hopeful_.

“Yeah?” she asks, breathless.

He kisses her, hard, _hungry_ —and murmurs, “I’d bet my life on it,” against her lips, before slanting his mouth deeper into hers, and she can’t focus on the way every inch of her feels weightless and hazy, can’t focus on the fact that none of this is real, that none of his has happened, _could_ happen. She can’t focus on anything other than Steve.

Slowly, slowly, he eases his lips from hers, nipping at her bottom lip just once before drawing back, and it feels as though he takes the warmth of the illusion with him as he steps away, still smiling at her. She feels the edges of her vision start to blur, then fade, and she takes a breath, trying to brace herself. Trying to be strong.

“Natasha.”

She turns around, blinking quickly, and suddenly the world is darker, and colder, and she finds a man standing just a few feet away from her.

“Strange?” she asks, eyes glancing over his robes, down to where the ends of his cape brush the surface of the water that they’re standing in the middle of. It stretches on for miles and miles around them, with that same, desolate planet just beyond the horizon, and she knows that she’s back to—back to wherever she was meant to have stayed in the first place. She may have never met Stephen Strange before, but after hours of combing through his files, staring at his photo, turning over his last words to Tony in her head—she knows even before his nod in response that this is true. “What—” She glances up at the expanse of space above their heads, exhaling. “Is this another illusion?” she asks.

“No,” he answers, drawing her eyes back to his. “Neither was the other world you were in.”

She shakes her head once. _No._ “That wasn’t real.”

“Maybe not to you. But to the Natasha whose mind you occupied for a short while, it’s very real. That life? It’s _hers_.” His lips twitch into the wisps of a smile. “Did you like it?”

“I—” She knows there isn’t any point in lying to him, so she simply deflects. Old habits and all that. “Does it matter?”

“When Steve comes here, you’ll want it to matter.”

Her heart stutters in her chest as she flinches back in surprise. “Why would he come here?”

“They found all of the Stones,” he tells her, stepping closer, letting her catch his gaze. Letting her see the truth in his words. “They reversed The Snap. They won the war.” He says the words calmly, slowly, as if knowing just how heavy it feels to have them settle over her mind, into her heart. As if knowing how much pure relief is coursing through her veins, making her breath hitch, making a smile pull at her lips. “And now Steve Rogers is coming back to return the Stones at the exact points in time that they were all taken.”

“He’s coming here,” she says, voice barely above a whisper as she holds his stare. “So why are _you_ here?”

His expression softens ever so slightly. “The obligation of being able to see so many outcomes and so many realities,” he starts with a tilt of his head, “is that, when you have the rare chance of seeing an outcome change for the better, you feel compelled to see it through.”

She feels her lips pull at the corners, just barely, but the smirk is there all the same. “And here I thought that speaking of the future will only change its outcome.”

He returns her smirk with one of his own, genuine amusement glinting in his eyes. “It does, always.” He steps closer, reaching out and resting a tentative hand on her shoulder, and it’s odd that the gesture feels a little bit comforting. She has a feeling he’s not one to touch, so maybe there’s something about this moment—about _her—_ that makes this a special circumstance. “But when you go back, _if_ you choose to go back, you won’t remember this conversation. You won’t remember anything that you saw of that other reality.”

Natasha blinks, lips parting slightly. “Go back?” she echoes.

“A soul for a soul,” Strange recites, the words making a rush of emotion course through her veins, too quick for her to dwell on. “An exchange required to keep the universe in balance.” He pulls his hand from her shoulder, tipping his chin a little to meet her stare. “That goes both ways, Natasha.”

She sways, taking a step back, and she knows the warmth unfurling in her stomach is— _hope._ Overwhelming, consuming _hope_.

“There’s no guarantee that the life you saw will be the life that unfolds for you if you return to your reality,” he warns, though something in his tone tells her that he believes—no, he _knows_ that this won’t be that much of a factor to her at all. “Nor will you have the memories of that other life to work towards. You’ll be taking a gamble.”

_(“You think we would still find each other? You think it will still be us in another reality?”_

_“I’d bet my life on it.”)_

“Taking a bet?” she asks in a breathless sort of laugh, and, for the first time, Strange smiles. It’s a good look on him, if he wasn’t so damn serious. Or maybe _because_ of that.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her, the command soft but firm, and she does exactly that, feeling her smile widen just a little bit more as she feels him step closer. “I must say, I think I’ll look forward to seeing your future unfold back home, Natasha Romanoff.”

 _Home_. Her heart stutters. “I do, too,” she whispers, and she thinks she hears him take a breath, thinks she begins to respond—

But the voice that calls her name isn’t his.

... ...

“Nat?”

She sucks in a breath, gasping, feeling water ripple out from around her, sliding into her suit and wetting her skin as she feels herself quickly moving to sit up. Her heart is racing, thrumming against her ribcage as she glances around, at the endless water stretching out around her, into the horizon of mountains and rocks.

She’d hit the bottom. She’d fallen all the way down, and she’d hit the bottom, and she knows it hadn’t hurt. She hadn’t had the chance to feel anything before—

Before _now_. Before she’d opened her eyes, startling awake, and finding herself _here_.

“ _Nat_.” Her name comes out as a choked, strangled sort of sound somewhere to her left, and then she’s turning her head, her breath catching in her throat as she finds herself staring back at the brightest, clearest shade of blue she’s ever seen. He’s a few paces away, mostly silhouetted in the dark shadows of the sky, and though the faint outlines of his suit seem different, she knows this is him. She knows it in her bones, in her _soul_. She’d recognize this man anywhere, simply from his voice and his breath and his presence.

Then he’s moving toward her, his large, warm, calloused hands reaching out, pulling her up, and her body feels hazy and weightless, disoriented, but that doesn’t matter.

Because then she’s being pulled against his chest, his hands wild and frantic, trying to touch every part of her all at once, until they come to cup her cheeks gently—so, so gently, like she’s something precious—and he stares down into her eyes. His are wet with tears, his expression brimming with emotion as they flicker across his face, too quick for her to quite catch, until there’s nothing but hope and pure, genuine _relief_ written in every inch of his face. He’s never quite touched her like this before, yet something in this moment feels familiar, just vaguely so. Or maybe she simply believes it is, because she’s imagined it countless times, in the small, secret part of her mind that indulged in the idea of her and Steve. That wondered if maybe something would be there between them if the dust ever settled, if the war was ever over and the fight was well and truly done.

If they got to go home.

She exhales a breath and lets her head fall forward, her face pressing into his neck, his pulse racing against her lips, just under the delicate curve of his throat.

“Tell me this is real,” he pleads, tightening his hold on her, drawing her back to meet her eyes again, as if he’s terrified that she’ll slip right through his fingers if he looks away for just a second. His expression cracks at every edge, thumb tracing up her cheek, over her temple, fingers tangling in her hair. “Tell me you’re real.”

“I’m real,” she says, not getting the words out fast enough, reaching up to touch his face, and his entire body eases as he leans his cheek against her palm. “I’m _real_.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his forehead falling against hers. “ _Fuck_. Nat. _Nat_.” He shakes his head, lips pulling at the corners, and there it is—that smile she fell in love with.

She slides her hands over his throat, her thumb smoothing circles over the thrum of his pulse. “Let’s go home,” she whispers, drawing a burst of laughter from his lips, a little wild and a little shaky, overwhelmed with relief, but still beautiful all the same. Still perfect.

For the first time in her life, it feels perfect.


End file.
